World War Turkey
by Assassin For Hire
Summary: An utterly amusing adventure featuring Scott and Jean, co-written by a friend. The Summers couple are on the hunt for that perfect turkey for Thanksgiving! Question is, who'll get to it first?


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WORLD WAR TURKEY  
**as written in roleplay by  
Krista C. (kabanas) and Jessica Duncan  
**  
**November 2001**  
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**DISCLAIMER:** Marvel Comics, we envy your copyright. I take no credit for Jean's writing--that would be my bestest wench Jessica Duncan's doing. Praise for her work should be sent to Jess_Duncan@hotmail.com, while I welcome comments to Bohemian_Kris@yahoo.com. This one is laden with inside jokes, so be forewarned. My friend and I have always felt Scott and Jean have more spine than people tend to write them with, so we've taken liberties with their traditional personalities, especially during this roleplay.   
  
This RP in no way aims to target Indians or make caricatures out of them, so my accomplice and I apologize prematurely if the following inflicts you any emotional harm.  
**  
**And now a word from Jess: "Scott's mine. All mine. Heh. And Marvel's, too, but they don't love him like I do." Cute.**  
  
  
  
  
Two days prior to Thanksgiving.**

**[SCOTT]** For some mysterious reason or another, Scott Summers seems to work himself like a dog every time the winter season creeps around. It's probably because Jean doubles in sassiness as the yuletide season skims along. Something to do with the Harvest Moon and eggnog and marshmallows and shooting skeet or something. This afternoon is no different. With Thanksgiving dinner looming in the corner a shy two days away, an unexpected dilemma had reared its ugly head and the Professor had sent Cyclops and Phoenix packing to the nearest supermarket to go on a hunt for what could be the last available turkey in all of New York. If anyone could pull it off, Charles decided, it would be these two. Success, after all, is coded into Scott's genes. There's no possible way he would come out of this supermarket without their dinner bagged in his hands. Besides, coming home empty would only mean kicking up the team's anxiety sky high, and who wants a cranky household for Thanksgiving? 

Easing the modest forest-green suburban into a tight parking space in front of Aurora Market, Scott reaches over to kill the defogger and the radio playing the county's top 40 smooth jazz hits. Rarely, he'd be seen in public like this out of uniform. Unless Scott had a valid reason to explain why he wears his sunglasses in broad daylight, rain or shine, he kept to the mansion confines like an hermit. There's little value in getting odd looks from everyone, anyway. Despite his amiable, gung-ho personality, Scott's supply of polite smiles _can_ be exhausted. Pulling the keys from the ignition, he pockets the jingling lot inside his brick-red Northface parka, and shoots the woman sitting beside him on the passenger seat a wry glance. No Chippendale's-style leather jacket here. No slacks like he just came from a corporate meeting. No need to attract attention. Just some scruffy jeans and a zipped coat for this bad boy. The only thing Scott Summers about him right now is the hair. It's been groomed with unnatural neatness.

Not that it was going to survive the winds howling outside like Satan's breath.

The last time he agreed to do the groceries, Scott was either coerced by the womenfolk or it had been at night--he couldn't remember which. Either way, Scott's silent gaze intends on asking Jean her opinion on his appearance. Hair in place? Glasses not too suspicious? Would you kiss me? It'd mean such a lot to me? 

His voice is almost a challenge. 

"Jean. Remember, baby. Pushing and shoving is a -last- resort." 

Outside, heavy winds toss damp fall leaves about the parking lot so a burst of yellow color starts attacking the SUV's windshield. 

**[JEAN]** Tempers running high... anxious people crowding the streets... no, it's not Godzilla. No, it's not Magneto causing world terror. It's Thanksgiving. And the turkey-pressure was on. Having assured Xavier that this mission would not fail, Jean had bundled up in her thick black pea-coat and scarf (she's a wimp when it comes to being cold) and black doeskin gloves that had been a birthday present from her sister.Assaulted directly upon stepping out of the vehicle (who's heat had been cranked the moment she got in) by the harsh winter wind, Jean hugs herself for warmth. She doesn't quite understand how Scott could be wandering about in these temperatures with barely more than a light jacket on, but okay. The sight of the crowd inside the store incites competition in her mind. That Butterball would be hers. She had a feeling Scott's supply of polite smiles would be running low within about five minutes if the number of people inside that store was any indicator. Reaching up to shove a chunk of red hair out of her face, she sidles up to her husband and sticks close. Buddy system tended to work well in these situations. She didn't want to get lost in the stuffing aisle. 

See, Scott Summers might be the one hell-bent on walking out of the supermarket with the bagged turkey, but she would be the one cooking it. Actually... herself and Storm, who usually arrived quietly in the kitchen moments before Jean when there was major food preparation to be done. Rogue might whirl in half an hour before dinner and chop something, but the Southerner tended to keep her hands out of the bowls. And thank goodness Gambit considered Thanksgiving unworthy of his culinary talents, or else she'd be picking up an extra head of broccoli on this suicide mission for the sole purpose of lobbing it at Remy's head. But first things first. That particular pleasure was about a month away, when they dueled over the rights for Christmas dinner. Gambit's mind would conveniently tell him he had other things to be doing. With a little persuasion. 

Taking in a deep breath of the cold air, Jean nods resolutely at Scott's words. 

"Last resort. First resort. I'm getting that turkey." 

**[SCOTT]** Game face on. Shoving against the forceful gales of this particularly dreadful fall windstorm, Scott finds he's ready to break the door handle off the car with the sheer effort of his exit. The car door slams shut behind him, locked. No turning back now. The wind and Scott's expression both have the unruly effect of making this all seem like some sort of western film. Good guy. Bad turkey. Ugly wind...

With sopping wet maple leaves whipping past his feet, Scott rounds the hood of the car, extending a hand to his wife. They've got to pick up the pace some. He could already make out other customers exiting from their car, dodging the hellish gale in zig-zag patterns that would eventually lead them to sanctuary. Damn competition… Despite the coffee-colored hair in his eyes and the protection of his shades, Scott frowns through it all, wanting to be inside already. But first…must find Jean's hand. Boy Wonder here suddenly finds himself raising his voice amidst the storm.

"Are we in a parking lot here or the Bermuda triangle?" 

**[JEAN]  
**Single. Minded. Quest.

"Parking lot. Bemuda Triangle. I'm getting that turkey."

Slipping her hand around Scott's in not only a perfect fit, but a hurried fashion, she steps up the pace towards the store. Looking left and right, she practically drags Scott through the traffic, certain cars finding they weren't able to move forward or backwards for some strange reason. Finally, the clump of hiking books hit the store's front curb. 

**[SCOTT]** Eheheh. Scott got leashed. On any other day, and in any other weather, he'd be smirking with unadulterated amusement at their plight right about now, but truth stands…their problems have yet to begun. Devouring the distance from the car to the automated sliding doors, Scott quickens his pace and strides beside Jean in tall, confident steps. Her little Popeye.

A look left.

A look right.

Cue the Mission: Impossible theme.

Fluidly reaching for a buck in his pocket, Scott dumps change inside the relief fund can being dangled in an old man's hand without breaking his stride. _Sssswoosh!_ Now inside the perimeter. And holy God, if the place isn't packed. Forget about the stuffing. Forget about the cranberry sauce. Forget about the wine. They'd worm into the "Under 10 Items" line for sure to avoid the congested traffic alongside the cash registers. Besides, the only thing missing from the steel fridge back home is the turkey. Aurora Market is the biggest supermarket this side of town. It's not your old-fashioned corner drug store, either, it's a warehouse.

Scott resists the urge to detach from Jean's hand to fold his arms in a trademark look of wry amusement. "Mommy." 

**[JEAN] **Likewise, Jean resists the urge to freeze everyone in their sports under a blanket of telekinetics. She has to remind herself that these are civilians, and not terror-wrecking bad guys. Might as well be for all the cruel looks the people standing smugly in line with 6-pound turkeys in their hands were receiving from Jean. It wasn't hard to figure out where the turkeys were located, but tactics prevail. Two people searching had a better chance of the both of them sticking together.

"Split up," she mutters, which elicits a smirk from the woman nudging out the door past them with a turkey in her bag. This all combined to give Jean the competitive edge that made her a formidable foe in battle. She might as well be wearing red and gold spandex. To impose that edge upon her Popeye, she adds... 

"Whoever comes up with the bigger turkey wins." 

**[SCOTT]** Scott doesn't need to be told twice. Dislodging his entrenched hand from Jean's grip, he buries his digits into his coat pockets, that grin he tried to suppress earlier now immovable from his unshaven features. Turning with effortless charm away from her, he saunters off, a most self-assured bite to his walk.

"This is just a turkey hunt, Red, not the Rose Bowl," he trails over his shoulder with a chuckle. 

At this point in time, however, it's becoming evident that _someone_ was garnering the attention of a few standby female shoppers along the endless lines. Sweeping the crowd, Scott tempers down his playful mood to get serious. Some lucky individuals had actually scored plastic-wrapped butterballs already. All the rest of them staring…he paid no attention to. 

Unfortunate for Scott, he's a walking magnet for stares, be they lust-induced or revolting gawks. Must be the hair. Or the chiseled profile. Handsome physique? Can't be the glasses… can it? Destination: Poultry Aisle. 

**[JEAN]** Rake me. would be the response her adorable husband receives telepathically. Making her way into the crowd, Jean looks around, keen green eyes spotting a steady flow of citizens with turkey in hand from _that_ way. So off she goes, with a decided saunter. Stopping once to get her bearings in the huge store, she's suddenly assailed by a woman grabbing her jacket's sleeve.

"Do you know where my baby is?!" the haggard woman asked in a desperate voice.

Startled, Jean wordlessly shakes her head. She recovers quickly, though, and just as she's about to do a quick mind-sweep for any local distressed children, a cry of "Mommy!" alerts Jean's new friend to the whereabouts of her child. "Mommy" promptly leaves Jean alone with an accusatory glare. Like she'd even had time to help.

Jean shakes her head, shrugging off the strange event. She quickly realizes she'd lost time with that setback and sets off again on her quest for the frozen food aisle. 

**[SCOTT]** Let the games begin! That is...right after Scott answers those strange looks from that parade of teenage girls buzzing around the copies of Seventeen along the expansive magazine and greeting card racks... He'd been caught snickering aloud to himself in response to Jean's snappy retort as he passed by. Pausing in his tracks, a goofy, undeniably sexy smile surfaces from Mr. Summers' face. In a few literal blinks, the girls' reaction goes from creeped out to lucid. Suddenly, Heath Ledger and Ben Affleck were looking like pitbulls compared to this reincarnation of Adonis. Scott can almost hear the collective skipping of heartbeats amidst their whispers as he clears his throat and quickly passes by the staring teenagers, a small amount of red coloring his cheeks. Oh boy. Where is that damned, elusive poultry aisle now? 

**[JEAN]  
**Just when she thought she'd passed through the crazies, a man approaches Jean.

"Where do I find the turkey stuffing?" he questions.

As if Jean works here. Oh, God... he thinks she works here. She can't imagine why... she's not dressed like an employee.

"I don't know, sir." Jean answers, hoping to sidestep him.

"What about the chick peas?"

Jean's expression does this: O.o Who eats chickpeas?!

"I really don't know. I'm not an--"

"You're not every helpful at all!"

"Sir, I don't--"

"I want to speak with your manager!"

And that was the last he said because, with a harassed expression, Jean waves her hand slightly, glazing over his mind until an employee came across him and gave him the help he wanted. What a madhouse. She fully intends on recommending Charles to an new grocer. 

**[SCOTT]** It's at this point that Scott's hurry finds him on a collision course straight into a small Indian woman laden with groceries in her hand. Must not…agh. Damn compulsive behavior. Rambling his apologies to her, Scott immediately drops to his knees to pick up her fallen jars of baby food, bagged bread and, of all things, a toilet brush and a box of feminine products.

"My fault entirely. Are you alright? Are you sure? Alright. I'm sorry. Here you are. Excuse me."

Side-stepping the poor woman with unmatchable speed, Cyclops is off again, headed for the source of the cold now seeping about the aisles. Shaded sky-blue eyes shoot to the ceiling, scanning the dizzying array of signs above his head.

Mr. Cyclops peels off for the corner before any other misfortunes delay him. Blast. The produce section. Misleading cold indeed! Employee tagging the carrots. Must not ask for direction. Men don't ask for directions. How incompetent would he look? Scott forces himself to calm down before he loses any more focus. All he simply had to do was to just cross this area and move on. No big deal... Too bad Aurora Market's produce section is the size of a football field in length. Or rather that's how this endless sea of greenery and bright legumes are looking to him. The speeding Cyclops catches his own wry grin on a shiny balance weight as he passes the displayed broccoli available. Hmm, perhaps he'll stock up later… Right now he had a turkey calling out his name. 

In another aisle now, Scott halts in his tracks as he briefly sights Jean's passing form. Scram! Detour. Quickly. THAT way. 

**[JEAN]** Success! The frigid atmosphere that constantly hovered about the frozen food aisle is even noticeable through her warm jacket. Shivering once, she steps forward with renewed spirit, straight towards the horde of people crowded around the turkey section. And no sign of Cyke, either. Right away, her slight frame finds maneuverability right up to the freezer. The advantages of being short and slender. Now she just needed to find the right one. Her eyes light upon a largish turkey, and she moves to check it's weight. 2 pounds? That wouldn't feed Logan on a normal day. 2.5... 3... all the really big ones appeared to be picked over.

Or not! Reaching through the tangle of arms, her fingertips light upon the perfect turkey.

"NOOOOOOO!"

Jean's fairly shaken off her feet at the shriek that ensues. Apparently, someone else had spotted it already.

"That one's MINE!"

Jean's scandalized to see the person on the other end of that voice. An elderly Indian lady, not much bigger than Jean herself and no doubt in league with the woman Scott had collided with. Eyes wide, like a small frightened animal, Jean nods her assent and backs off the turkey.

Holy Mother of God...

"Sorry, ma'am..."

As Jean backs off, her shoulder bumps into another uncaring turkey hunter, and she's careened right into the freezer. BINGO! In front of her sat the biggest turkey Butterball had ever produced. Or at least Jean thought so. Placing her hands on the 6 pound turkey to stake her claim, she reaches out to try and lift it.

"Oooooh!" That same voice crooned. Apparently the old lady like Jean's turkey better. 

"Hand it over!" The woman demands, much to Jean's consternation.

"I'm sorry, but you've already got one, and I'm not giving this up," Jean replies fervently, easily lifting the frozen bird.

"I want that one now!"

Appalled, Jean steps back, clutching her turkey. The elderly woman, with surprising strength places her hands on the bird and tugs.

"Ma'am! Let go, please!"

Always polite. Xavier would hear about this... 

**[SCOTT]** The very sight of Jean pumps Scott's heart rate to unreachable heights. Alright, screw craftiness. He had to get to that turkey and FAST. Oh no… just as he feared. Eyes glancing to the skies, Scott can nearly feel his heart in his throat, reading the nearby sign that was marked: "FROZEN FOODS". As if affirming his worry, Scott hears Jean's voice as he rounds the corner, now finding himself in the ill-placed, ill-heated--all around "ill"--turkey aisle. But then…Scott's jogging dies down, not unlike the slowing of his breathing. Without even having to ask what's going on, Scott reads into Jean's posture and mind-voice and immediately goes into Rescue Mode. Wordless, Scott watches their exchange like a frozen Cyclopsicle, some ten feet away behind Jean. 

To charm or not to charm this little old lady into submission? Aye, there's the rub. 

**[JEAN]  
** "You let go, young lady!" The woman demanded, and Jean had a sudden thought that the other woman might start beating her with her purse any instant. It caused her to laugh at the mental image that produced, and chuckling with lightened spirits, Jean points beyond the lady.

"Look! An eight-pounder!"

"WHERE?"

And with that, the woman let go and turned. Jean takes the opportunity to get away. Now to find the husband...  
  
  
  
  
  


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**DUN DUN DUN!  
And we've just gotten started...**

**TO BE CONTINUED****...!**


End file.
